Truth is
when the heart grows cold enough
everything disappears. Even the self
is invisible (though the mind
would prefer a word like “detained”).
If you can’t feel anything
the whole world is “detained” —
our lives happening and unhappening
at what seems a safe distance.
But that
is all a seeming, an apparition.
There is only one
distance, which is love, one real
choice, and if we consent to it,
the one we were
is lost forever. “Abandonment,”
we call it. As in: wild, or perfect.
We abandon ourselves
to love.
~Kate Knapp Johnson~
Wind Somewhere and Shade
photograph: Ansel Adams, “The Black Sun, Owens Valley, California,” 1939
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i adore Ansel’s stuff… someday im going to pack up my gear and head into the mountains and do my versions of this.. ahh i already DO though! how sweet is that?
a wonderous poem too… abandon… i love the feeling of that… xoam